


further from home

by chrofeather



Series: home is behind (the world ahead) [2]
Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Meet the Family, Platonic Relationships, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:07:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21991924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrofeather/pseuds/chrofeather
Summary: A collection of deleted scenes from home is behind (the world ahead). Some fluff, some angst, and a whole lotta Quentin & Peter hurt/comfort.[These will probably not make sense if you haven't read the first fic in this series.]
Relationships: Quentin Beck & Peter Parker
Series: home is behind (the world ahead) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1583071
Comments: 16
Kudos: 61





	1. Ch. 24 - Quentin's scars

**Author's Note:**

> This will be the place I post all the scenes that didn't make it into the final cut of home is behind. Tags will be added as more chapters are posted. Warnings will also be added on a chapter-by-chapter basis.
> 
> If you read home is behind, you'll probably like this!

The warehouse was dark and quiet at this time of night—or was it morning now? Peter wasn’t sure. But he was tired, and he knew Quentin had to be exhausted, not having slept in two days.

After a minute of digging through a battered chest of drawers (clearly salvaged from the junk heap next door), Quentin tossed a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt to Peter, who gratefully swapped his costume for the looser, comfy clothes. They were oversized and loose on him, but Peter quite liked it, really. The scent that clung to the fabric was one that Peter had come to associate with Quentin, and he was quietly comforted by it. He sat on the bed with his legs crossed, picking at the softness of the blanket until he felt the mattress dip with the addition of Quentin’s weight.

Peter looked up, seeing that Quentin was sitting on the edge of the bed, aimlessly playing with the shirt in his hands.

Peter couldn’t help but stare at Quentin’s bare back, feeling his breath catch in his throat. A mess of horizontal stripes stretched across Quentin’s well-muscled back, some criss-crossed and others not. There had to be perhaps fifteen stripes, starting at Quentin’s shoulder blades and going all the way to his hips, disappearing beneath the waistband of his pants. Peter was willing to bet the marks kept going all the way to Quentin’s thighs, though he hadn’t seen the full extent of the wounds even when they were fresh. The wounds were the smooth pink of newly healed flesh, but it looked like they would leave very visible scars. Perhaps the marks would fade with time, but for now they were a tangible reminder of what Quentin had suffered through. Peter swallowed hard, his chest suddenly tight with guilt.

“I can practically hear you thinking, y’know,” Quentin remarked, and Peter nearly jumped, startled out of his thoughts.

“Sorry,” Peter said with a quiet, awkward huff of laughter. He went quiet again for a moment, guilt weighing heavy as a stone in his belly. He didn’t know what to say, really, didn’t know what he could say that would make anything better.

“Do… do they still hurt?” Peter asked finally, hesitant. He knew that Quentin knew exactly what he was talking about.

“Not anymore,” Quentin said after a pause. He seemed distant, lost in thought. Or maybe he was just tired. “They just… ache, sometimes.”

Peter knew exactly what he meant. Sometimes he felt the same sort of phantom pain from the last two fingers on his left hand, a distant not-quite-pain even though the flesh was smooth and healed now.

Peter shifted his weight on the bed, scooting a bit closer to Quentin. He didn’t realize he was staring until Quentin spoke again.

“Not the prettiest, I know,” Quentin said with a wry smile, glancing over his shoulder. “I think I’ll have to quit wearing the backless suit.”

Peter knew it was meant to be a joke, but still he felt compelled to explain. “N-no, that’s not what I was thinking,” he insisted. “...wait, the suit is backless?”

Quentin laughed. “No, not this version. The original was, but I thought it might be a little much, even for Mysterio.”

Peter fell silent for a moment. Almost without thinking, he reached up to trace one of the scars with his fingertips, and felt Quentin stiffen in surprise at the touch. “Sorry,” he blurted immediately, withdrawing his hand. “I, um…” He didn’t quite know how to explain his sudden desire to touch, to comfort somehow.

“It’s alright,” Quentin told him. “You just surprised me. You can touch them.”

Peter hesitated only a moment before reaching up again to trace the scars with his fingertips. Quentin’s skin was warm and surprisingly soft, and Peter mapped the difference in texture between the scars and the canvas of Quentin’s back. He thought back to that terrifying moment when Fury had tried to make Peter watch them torture Quentin, about how much worse it could have been.

He didn’t realize how still and quiet he’d gone, his palm resting against the middle of Quentin’s scarred back, until Quentin moved, rustling the sheets and getting Peter’s attention once again.

Quentin turned to face Peter, sitting on the bed and taking Peter’s hand in his larger one. It was as though he could sense that Peter was drifting away, lost in bad memories. His touch helped to ground Peter, though, to keep him in the moment. “Listen to me, kid,” he said softly. “It’s okay now. We’re safe.”

Peter swallowed, then nodded, trying to calm the tide of emotion he felt welling up inside him. After a moment he sat up and hugged Quentin tightly, as though afraid he was going to disappear.

This time, Quentin hugged him back without hesitation.

“I don’t think they’re ugly, y’know,” Peter mumbled into Quentin’s shoulder. “Scars just mean that… you were brave. That you survived.” That was what Uncle Ben had said when Peter was eight years old, crying and bleeding from a painful scrape on his elbow that would later scar into a neat little white line. It was so long ago that Peter barely remembered the fall from his bike, but Uncle Ben’s words had stuck with him.

“You survived. And we got out. That makes you a hero to me,” Peter continued softly, and he felt Quentin hug him just a little tighter.

Quentin maybe sounded a little choked up when he said, quietly, “Thanks, kid.”


	2. Ch. 25 - Meeting Aunt May

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is kind of self-explanatory. Quentin meets Aunt May after Peter comes home!

Peter was showing Quentin around the apartment (not that there was much to see; it was a rather small space), when they heard the door open. Peter paused in mid-sentence as he was showing Quentin his bedroom, eyes widening.

“Peter?” May called out as she shut the door and put her purse down. “You here?”

Peter took Quentin by the hand and hurried back to the living room, eager. “Hi, May! Uh, you’re home early,” he said with a little laugh.

“Yeah, I got off a little early at work,” May said, her gaze lingering on Quentin, eyebrows raised.

“Well, um—” Peter gestured to May, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, as though he was nervous or excited or maybe both. “Quentin, this is my Aunt May. And, uh, May, this is—”

“Mysterio,” May finished for him, confident.

Peter and Quentin exchanged incredulous glances, and Quentin looked toward May with vague surprise. May Parker was sharper than he’d expected.

Peter lightly elbowed him in the ribs. “Told you.”

“Well, am I right?” May asked expectantly. She took her jacket off and hung it on the hook next to the door.

“How’d you guess?” Quentin asked with a raised eyebrow.

May shrugged. “Eh, right height, right build. Plus, Peter hangs out with a lot of…” She gestured vaguely. “...superheroes, and such. Wasn’t hard to narrow down the possibilities.”

Quentin glanced again at Peter. “And you kept your secret identity from her for how long again?”

May laughed, and Peter rubbed the back of his neck with an awkward chuckle. 

“It’s, uh, nice to meet you, Mrs. Parker,” Quentin said after a moment, remembering his manners. He took a step forward, offering May his hand. “I’m Quentin Beck. A… friend of Peter’s.” He glanced over his shoulder, and Peter gave a thumbs-up, beaming.

May looked somewhat surprised, but she took the offered hand, her grip surprisingly firm for such a slight woman. She smiled. “Nice to meet the man behind the fishbowl. And please, call me May.”

“It’s not a fishbowl,” Quentin muttered awkwardly as May turned her back, going to the kitchen to look in the fridge.

“Then what is it?” Peter asked, curious. “I mean, I thought it was a fishbowl, too.”

“It’s supposed to be a crystal ball,” Quentin said, rolling his eyes. “Did nobody get that?”

“Nope,” Peter said, popping the ‘p.’

“Seriously? C’mon, it was supposed to be obvious.”

“Well, Twitter says otherwise.” Peter sounded far too amused by that. “But I think ‘Mysterio’ had a better ring to it than ‘fishbowl head.’”

Quentin snorted. “Jesus, people are denser than I thought they’d be.”

“Hello?” May spoke up, looking expectantly at both of them. “Peter, I said did you take the chicken out of the freezer like I asked you to?”

Peter’s eyes went wide. “Uh… no. Sorry,” he said with an apologetic chuckle. “Totally forgot.”

May sighed. “Well, I guess that kills my plans to try this new recipe,” she said, leaning against the counter with her hands on her hips. She paused, thinking. “We can try it tomorrow. Pete, why don’t you go pick us up some sandwiches from that deli down the block?”

“Uh, sure,” Peter said. He glanced at Quentin, apologetic. “Um, d’you mind waiting here for a minute?”

Quentin waved it off. “Go on, kid. I got no plans for the rest of the day.”

“Get us three of those Italian subs. Oh, and don’t forget the pickles!” May instructed, handing Peter some money as he headed out the door.

“Sure. I’ll be back in like, five minutes!” Peter assured the both of them. Then the door shut, and only then did Quentin realize how quiet it was without Peter around. The kid talked a mile a minute normally, and the place seemed empty without Peter’s energy to fill the room.

May adjusted her glasses, still leaning against the counter in the small kitchen area. “So,” she began after a moment. “You were… there. With Peter.”

Quentin blinked. He was briefly surprised by the sudden change of subject, but he supposed he shouldn’t be. He could see it in May’s eyes, the guilt she felt.

“Yeah,” he said, finally finding his voice. “I was.” 

He wasn’t sure what else to say. As of yet, no one had asked him to recount exactly what happened while he and Peter were in the Raft. He wasn’t sure he could, even if May did ask. More than that, though, he wasn’t sure how much he should say. Some of that stuff was Peter’s to tell, especially to his aunt.

May nodded slowly, pursing her lips for a moment. “I’m not gonna ask you what happened in there,” she said, looking at him, and Quentin felt some of the tension relax from his back and shoulders. “That’s between you and Peter, and if he wants to tell me, then he will.”

Quentin got the sense that she wasn’t finished yet, so he didn’t say anything, just stood there and looked at her. He knew it had to be obvious, his mismatched eyes, and it was even more readily apparent when he was standing next to Peter. But he didn’t look away.

May took a deep breath. “Peter’s been… different since the Blip happened,” she began quietly, and there was a faint tremor to her voice that betrayed how much it hurt her to say it. “He’s… hurt. And he’s got every right to be.” She let out a breathy, awkward laugh, taking off her glasses to wipe at her eyes. “My kid had to watch Tony Stark die. He watched his uncle die, too.”

Oh. Quentin hadn’t known that. As much as he had… conflicted feelings on Tony’s legacy, it seemed nothing but cruel that Peter had to witness that particular death.

“I’m sorry,” was all Quentin could think to say.

May’s gaze lingered on him, tearful but guarded. “I haven’t seen him like this in a long time,” she continued after a moment. “Happy told me a little bit of what happened when he went to get you guys out of that place.”

Quentin couldn’t help but glance away. It hadn’t been the best plan in the world, but it was the only one he had. Faking his own death had been a last resort, but hey, you use what you’ve got. “You don’t know what we were up against in there,” he said, thinking of what they might have been subjected to had the escape attempt been unsuccessful.

“No,” May admitted, crossing her arms in front of her stomach. “I don’t. But I do know that Peter cares about you. A lot.” She paused a moment. “I wanted to say thank you. For taking care of my son. For keeping him safe.”

Quentin was briefly caught off-guard. He’d already gotten the whole protective parental figure speech from Pepper, and he’d rather expected to hear the same from May. This, though… was unexpected.

“Really, the kid was the one protecting me,” Quentin admitted with a wry smile. “All I did was try to keep us both alive.”

May gave a faint smile, nodding her head slowly. “Sometimes that’s all you can do,” she said, her voice softer now, almost motherly. She paused. “Peter always feels like… like he has to be the hero. I worry about him, out there all by himself.”

She looked at Quentin, who felt as though she was looking straight through him somehow. It was clear that May loved Peter fiercely, unconditionally. He had no doubt that May would kill for Peter, if she had to. And he could see how it hurt her that she couldn’t protect him out there.

“And that’s why I’m glad that you were there,” May continued. She took off her glasses to dab at her eyes with her sleeve. “Peter needs someone to look out for him. Because I know he’d do anything to keep other people safe… Sometimes he needs someone to keep him safe, too.”

“I can’t promise that nothing’s gonna happen out there,” Quentin admitted, meeting May’s quietly desperate gaze. “Sometimes… things don’t go according to plan. But I can promise that I’ll look out for him. Be there for him. If there’s any way it’s possible, I won’t let him get hurt.”

May smiled, but the look in her eyes was mournful as she twisted the delicate gold band around her ring finger. “That’s all I could ask for.”

  
  



	3. Ch. 25 - Eye exam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another piece that ultimately got cut from the last chapter! Peter and Quentin were originally supposed to see Dr. Cho together, but it just didn't fit into Chapter 25 like I wanted it to. Short, but sweet!

Peter sat atop the exam table next to Quentin and tried not to fidget, although his legs swung absently back and forth as he watched the doctor examine Quentin’s eyes, shining a penlight in each and asking him to look up, down, left right. 

Peter had just had the same exam done, and while he knew there was nothing to be afraid of here in the Stark Industries Biomedical Sciences Clinic, he couldn’t help but be nervous. The white walls and antiseptic-smelling air brought back not-so-good memories, to say the least.

“Well, I have to say that this is a best-case scenario, in my opinion,” said Dr. Helen Cho, putting her instruments in the pockets of her white coat. She was in New York for a conference this week, and she’d agreed to look over Peter and Quentin as a favor to Pepper.

“What does that mean?” Peter blurted out, before he could think better of it. When Pepper had asked both him and Quentin to come in to see what could be done about their eyes, his stomach was in nervous knots. 

“Well, when Ms. Potts called me and described the situation, I was anticipating some rather nasty results,” Dr. Cho admitted, glancing between Peter and Quentin. “But you both seem to have recovered quite well from the procedure, and the lack of rejection is astonishing. Probably something to do with your enhanced biology, Peter.”

Peter gave a faint smile. “Glad it came in handy.”

Seeming to sense Peter’s nervousness, Quentin patted Peter on the shoulder, brief but comforting. “So what’s the verdict, doc? Anything we can do?”

“Well, whoever did this surgery really knew what they were doing,” Dr. Cho explained. She gestured to Peter and Quentin. “The fact that both of you have not only recovered nicely but have full vision out of the transplanted eye is frankly amazing. No signs of rejection or inflammation in the tissue. This is a medical marvel. I suppose it would be possible to replicate the surgery, but...”

“W-wait, we could… switch them back?” Peter asked, realizing too late how nervous and uncertain his voice sounded.

“Well, in theory, yes, but to be perfectly honest, there’s no data on the success rates of a  _ reverse  _ transplant,” Dr. Cho said after a moment of thought. “Not to mention that a procedure like this would be incredibly difficult and delicate. Risky, too. It’s likely that some kind of experimental technology or technique was used to complete this procedure the first time around. This has really… never been done before. Especially not on human subjects.”

“How risky?” Quentin asked. Peter glanced at him, trying to discern his feelings on the matter, but Quentin’s expression betrayed nothing but a thoughtful frown.

“Probably substantially. Even if I could find a team of experts to attempt the procedure, there’s a good chance that one or both of you would end up losing sight in your right eye.” Dr. Cho glanced at Peter. “With your enhanced healing, you’d probably be fine.”

Her gaze shifted to Quentin. “You, though… I’m not sure. Of course, there is a chance that the transplant would take just fine, given that you’re receiving your own tissue, but the fact of the matter is that the eye is an exceedingly delicate organ, and I’m not sure how well the optic nerve will heal in someone non-enhanced.”

“So what if we don’t do it?” Peter cut in. All this talk of surgeries and the risks involved was a bit nerve-wracking, and the thought of being put under for the procedure was enough to make Peter’s skin crawl.

“Well, you appear to have recovered just fine,” Dr. Cho said with a shrug. “As long as you’re not in any pain, and your vision is functional, I’m inclined to simply leave things as they are. However, I’ll leave it up to you two if it’s something you want to try.”

Peter exchanged glances with Quentin.

“I’ll leave it up to you, kid. You got the short end of the stick here,” he said with a wry smile. 

Peter swallowed. “Would it be okay if we just stayed like this?” he asked, looking from Quentin to the doctor.

“As long as neither of you are in any pain and your vision is functional, I see no reason not to,” Dr. Cho said simply. 

Peter couldn’t help but feel relieved. The thought of another surgery, especially with the risks to one or both of them, was nerve-wracking. “I’m okay with not doing it,” he said, looking towards Quentin. He gave a small smile. “Besides, I think we look kinda cool.”

Quentin ruffled Peter's hair fondly. "You make it look good, kid."


	4. Ch. 18 - Alternate Climax

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Bad Future (TM) timeline. This was my angsty alternate climax to Home is Behind, in which they don't escape successfully. 
> 
> Warnings for MEGA ANGST, hurt no comfort.

Inside the illusion, it felt like being underwater. Not literally, of course, but like things were distorted and strange and unbalanced, completely unlike what Peter was used to.

Peter was used to his senses working at 150% of a normal person’s, being able to see and hear and anticipate things well in advance of other people. Here, all of that seemed to be gone, and it was… frightening. As he wandered through the strange fog, he couldn’t really hear or see much other than bizarre muffled voices and laughter, the floor cold and damp beneath his feet. 

After running from the Elemental monster and the strange… thing that had been chasing him, Peter was starting to think he was lost. He hadn’t really paid attention to which way he was running as he fled the monsters, and a sinking feeling in his gut was telling him that something was wrong.

“It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not  _ real _ ,” Peter tried to remind himself, whispering the phrase over and over again like a mantra, as though he could convince his senses to work harder.

The dread weighing heavy in his stomach told him that he was running out of time. Peter hadn’t seen a clock more than twice in the time he’d been here in the Raft, but somehow he got the sense that he needed to hurry. Were Happy and the others still waiting? How long had he been wandering in this maze of illusions?

A loud clang of metal striking metal rang out in the dark, like a gunshot, and Peter jumped. “Hello?” he called out weakly, hoping it wasn’t a mistake.

Peter’s heart was pounding. He opened his mouth to say more, but the words were lost as the world suddenly shattered around him. The illusion tilted and shifted nauseatingly, and Peter felt his balance lurch with his stomach.

Then the false images disappeared entirely as the drones sparked and crashed around him in a hail of bullets, leaving Peter disoriented and exposed in the middle of the corridor.

There was a shout from the other end of the hall, and Peter felt a thrill of fear as a group of armed guards started to move towards him. He didn’t have EDITH, or his webshooters, or anything, really.

He froze.

Peter could only stand there and stare, terrified as the armed and armored guards approached, shouting things that Peter couldn’t understand beyond the ringing in his ears. He knew that he should be doing  _ something _ —running, climbing the walls, leaping out of the way—but it was like his brain was somehow disconnected from his body. His instincts were screaming at him to move, but his feet remained rooted to the floor, body trembling with how tense his muscles were. 

The men raised their weapons, and Peter didn’t have time to be afraid. He shut his eyes on instinct.

The corridor erupted with the sound of gunfire just as Peter felt a hard shove that nearly bowled him over, shoving him out of the way and into a previously unseen doorway. Peter found his feet just in time, scrambling through the door and then turning to slam it shut behind him, as soon as his companion had made it through. Peter twisted the door handle, bending the metal like it was nothing but plastic and easily jamming the lock in place.

Peter pressed his back against the door, chest heaving. It wouldn’t hold forever, but it would buy them some time.

His eyes went wide when he saw who it was that had pushed him through the door. “Mr. Beck!” he exclaimed, so relieved that his knees felt weak and wobbly for a moment.

Beck was leaning against the wall, panting, one hand gingerly clutching at his ribs. “Hey, kid,” he said breathlessly.

“Mr. Beck, we gotta go,” Peter said urgently, jittery with adrenaline as he looked from the blockaded door to the rest of the currently empty corridor. “We gotta get to the hangar, I think Happy’s here, and—”

Peter frowned as he took in Beck’s pallid appearance, the way he was clutching at his side. The EDITH glasses were starting to slip down his nose.

Beck peeled his hand away from his stomach and looked down, seeing that it was soaked with scarlet. “Shit,” he muttered, looking dizzy as he slid down to the floor with his back against the wall, panting. 

“Mr. Beck!” Peter exclaimed, helplessly terrified as he ran to kneel at Beck’s side. “No, no, no… W-we gotta go, remember?” His heart was beating a mile a minute, feeling almost dizzy with fear. Seeing the blood soaking Beck’s shirt, the pallor of his skin… Peter’s sixth sense was telling him this was bad.

Peter was desperately trying to ignore it, though, trying not to tremble visibly as he took Beck’s hand and gave it a little squeeze. “C’mon, Mr. Beck,” he pleaded, ready to pull Beck to his feet. “W-we’re almost there, I promise.”

Beck’s breathing was weak and shallow, blue and brown eyes hazy with shock. He made an effort to focus on Peter, though, and reached up to take the glasses off. He pressed the glasses into Peter’s hand, lenses smeared with blood. 

“Go on, kid.” Beck gave a weak smile, though it came out more like a grimace. “I’ll catch up.”

“No,” Peter insisted, voice breaking. “No. I-I’m not leaving you behind…!” He was starting to panic a little bit. God, there was  _ so _ much blood… Beck’s shirt was soaked with it, and the hand pressed over the wound in his belly hadn’t done much to stem the bleeding. 

Peter put one of his own hands over Beck’s, putting more pressure on the wound. Beck winced, and Peter felt a flicker of guilt, but there would be time to feel guilty later. Right now he just needed Beck to be okay.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Peter said, his voice coming out small and shaky, and it sounded more like a plea than a reassurance. They were so close! They couldn’t let it end like this, not now. “Y-you’re gonna be okay…”

Beck closed his eyes for a moment, letting his head drop back against the wall. When he opened them again, they were sleepy, less focused than before. He glanced down, grimacing at the blood leaking between his fingers. “You gotta go, kid.”

“I’m not leaving without you,” Peter insisted, his eyes teary but fierce. He draped Beck’s arm over his shoulders, tried to help him stand. Beck gave a valiant effort, but he’d lost a lot of blood. His legs were as shaky as a newborn calf’s, and his choked cry of pain led Peter to abort the attempt.

There was an alarming crash from behind the door, which shuddered on its hinges, but held. Peter flinched, startled, and looked helplessly from Beck to the door. This felt like a nightmare, like the helpless terror he’d felt as he watched the light fade from Mr. Stark’s eyes. 

“Peter,” Beck said, almost imploring now. He was getting weak, and there was blood leaking from the corner of his mouth.

Beck reached up and caressed Peter’s cheek with one hand, and Peter placed his own smaller hand over Beck’s. His eyes welled up with tears, which he desperately, unsuccessfully tried to blink away.

“The world needs Spider-Man,” Beck urged him gently. 

“Why?” Peter hiccuped. He wasn’t even sure what he was asking: why this, why now, why did it have to be him? He didn’t know. “I… I’m just a kid.” He was just a kid, and he felt so lost and alone and afraid.  _ I need you, _ he wanted to say.

Beck gave a ghost of a smile. “People need… to believe in something,” he said weakly, in between shallow breaths. “And right now… they believe in you, Peter.”

Quentin’s hand slipped from Peter’s face, leaving parallel smears of blood on his cheek.

“Mr. Beck?” Peter asked in a small voice, quietly devastated. He nudged at Beck’s shoulder, as though trying to shake him awake. 

Beck’s eyes were empty, his stare vacant.

The metal of the door shuddered and groaned with repeated impacts against the other side, but Peter was barely paying attention to it. His vision blurred with tears, and he buried his face in Beck’s shoulder, begging incoherently for him to wake up.

This was a nightmare, it had to be. 

The door’s top set of hinges broke, bolts clattering to the floor. It wouldn’t be long now before the guards broke through.

Peter let out a shuddering breath and sat back on his knees, feeling like there was no air in his lungs. His hands were shaking as he reached out and tenderly closed Beck’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” was all he could say. He would have to grieve later. 

Peter clutched the EDITH glasses in his hand, got up and ran in the opposite direction with tears in his eyes, forcing himself not to look back. 

  
  



End file.
